


House of Stone

by Rossi



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Minor Canonical Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 00:58:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7597132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rossi/pseuds/Rossi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: “My people are losing hope – my father looks to me to lead them.”</p>
<p>Scenes from the lives of two Men of Gondor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	House of Stone

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters aren’t mine, they belong to Tolkien. Cirion’s mine, but the name is Tolkien's too. No profit, only homage.
> 
> Rating: PG – some violence.

A pale cold sun shone on a pale cold city. The winter wind, blowing strong and chill from the North, snapped the banners mounted high on the towers of Minas Tirith, sentinel-city, cradle of warriors.

“Yield, human! For I am a servant of the Darkness and I am here to throw you down!”

“Never! No orc shall overcome Boromir, son of the Steward of Gondor, not while my fingers hold a sword!”

Battle cries rang in the frosty air as the two combatants met with a clash of weapons. 

“Take that! And that!”

“Hah! You call that a sword-strike?”

Fierce the battle raged along the battlements, until with a triumphant cry the defender of Minas Tirith disarmed his foe, driving him back against the wall. He raised his sword to deal the cowering form the final blow, only to stumble forward as another forgotten enemy tackled him from behind. The three tumbled together, flailing at each other, until another, sterner voice interrupted them:

“I thought I would find you three here, playing whilst your tasks lie unattended.”

The three instantly froze, identical expressions of guilt crossing each face. Hard, rough hands, one seizing Cirion’s collar, the other Beregond’s ear, separated them from Minas Tirith’s champion. “Strange, I most definitely recall a pile of rusty weapons to be oiled in the guardhouse – could it be you are finished already? Most wondrous, considering I set you the task a scarce hour ago.”

“No, Baranor,” Cirion mumbled, hanging his head before the stern man dressed in the silver and black of the place guard. He was echoed by Beregond: 

“No, Father.”

“Best you two be off to your duties - I shall have more to say to you later.” Baranor’s expression was grim, and Cirion and Beregond gulped and fled, grateful for the deferral of sentence. As the sound of their footfalls on the stone steps faded, Boromir climbed to his feet and faced the guard with dismay.

“Do not tell me my father sent you to find me?”

Baranor chuckled, his mirth not easing the lines of care around his eyes. “Indeed he has, little lordling. Your tutor grew weary with the merry dance you led him, and went a-telling tales.” Boromir sighed, and envied his friends; even cleaning swords in the guard-house would be less tiresome than being forced to recite the line of the Kings of Gondor yet again. He regretted the sigh when Baranor focussed his piercing dark eyes downwards. “A soldier does not shirk his tasks, even when they are most tiresome. That goes doubly for Stewards, Boromir. You have a duty, a responsibility towards not only this city and its citizens, but the rest of the Free Peoples. Minas Tirith is all that stands between them and the Shadow yonder.” He gestured over the wall, towards the dark line of mountains eastward. Despite himself, Boromir shivered, and he thought of his mother, closing the shutters on the eastward-facing windows in the Citadel, her grey eyes full of horror.

“But what use are dry old books and long lists of names of kings long dead?” he complained. “It is swords, not words, that keep the Nameless Enemy at bay.”

“I am a mere guard, and I do not presume to know the mind of your father, the Steward. Yet value there must be in those dusty old tomes, as you call them, or he would not set you to study,” Baranor admonished gently. “Now, take yourself to your tutor, little lord. This is no time for childish play.”

Boromir’s eight-year-old soul rebelled, but looking up into that hard face, he knew he was defeated. With another sigh that seemed to come from the very bottom of his boots, he trudged off down the steps towards the Citadel.

***

“When I was a girl, I played by the shores of the Sea. The sun was always warm and kind, and the air was fresh and clean. I would collect shells, washed up on the beach, and make them into trinkets for my mother…” Boromir snuggled closer into the circle of his mother’s arm – a gesture of gentleness becoming rarer in the ten year old boy – and listened to his mother’s whispering voice. Her fingers, stroking the hair from his forehead, felt bone-thin. He pushed the thought away, and cuddled closer still.

“Were there ships, Mother? Like the Men from the West had?” Faramir asked, his small face alight with curiosity. Boromir’s younger brother had a fascination for the tales of the Numenoreans, the legendary Kings of the West who were their forebears. 

“None such as those, my son, but there were ships, their sails so white in the afternoon sun!” The room flickered with firelight, the shutters on the eastward windows making it eternally dim, a kind of warm, fragrant cave. Finduilas’ voice was soothing as she described her beloved home, and soon Faramir was asleep, pillowed within the circle of their mother’s other arm. She talked a little longer, and then, sure her youngest was indeed deeply asleep, she spoke to Boromir in the breathless whisper that had become all-too-familiar in the recent months. She had seldom been seen outside her chambers since summer’s end – never one for public appearances, she had become completely reclusive – and the deepening grimness of his father’s expression when his lady’s health was discussed had frightened Boromir even more than the hacking cough and the circles beneath her large eyes.

“My Boromir, my strong son… soon you will be a man, a mighty warrior. Oh, that I could see that day!”

“Why would you not, Mother?” Boromir asked, his voice trembling despite the set of his chin. He _was_ strong, he _was_ a warrior, and he would not cry, even though he knew what was coming.

“You know.” Finduilas’ voice was as lilting as always, musical with the accent of the south, but Boromir could hear the sorrow weighing heavy in her words. “The healers say otherwise, on my lord’s command, but I know the truth. I shall not see another Spring.”

Tears welled in his eyes, but Boromir clenched his teeth and refused to let them fall. “No.”

“Yes, my son. I cannot live under the watch of the Eye, and the Shadow steals the light that might sustain me.” His mother’s hands fluttered, fell still upon the great blue mantle that lay upon the bed coverings. The silver stars embroidered on it gleamed softly in the firelight. “I came here at my father’s will, and stayed at my husband’s, but sometimes duty demands more than we can give. And yet, we still must we bend to its will, no matter the cost.”

“Mother…” Despite his best efforts, tears stood in his eyes.

“Look after Faramir, my son. Protect him.” Her lips were cold on his forehead, as if the breath had already fled them. “He will need you.”

Boromir heard the urgency in her voice, felt it in the grip of her hand as it moved to take his arm. Jerking his other sleeve roughly across his eyes, he set his still childishly full lips in a straight line and nodded.

“I shall, Mother.” He glanced across at his sleeping brother, like him so like their father in looks, and nodded again. “I promise.”

***

Metal rang on metal – clang, clang, CLANG – echoing around the practice ground. The smaller of the two swordsmen pressed forward, his weapon flashing in the sunlight. Each move was countered by his partner, the two brothers marking perfect time in this deadly dance.

“Good, Faramir! And again!”

Faramir grinned briefly at his tutor, basking in the praise. To his nine-year-old eyes, Boromir was already a man, although maturity was yet to fill in the height he had gained. Five years marked the difference in their ages, the elder taking it upon himself to tutor his brother in the physical skills he excelled at, the younger a devoted and quick-grasping pupil.

“Ho Boromir! Nurse-maiding again?”

“He’s a far better student than you will ever be, Dusan,” Boromir retorted, not interrupting his lesson to glance at the newcomer. Amongst the young men and older boys of the Citadel there was little deference to the ranks of Denethor’s sons. In this last year before taking up their full duties as men of Gondor – Guard and foot-soldier, Steward and Captain – they were still all comrades-in-training.

“He could be, if he didn’t waste so much time amongst the scholars,” Dusan laughed. “Men of Gondor need strong arms and quick reflexes, not heads stuffed with music and moonshine and old tales.”

Faramir flushed a little, but held his tongue. Son of the Steward he might be, but Dusan was still a prenticed man and he but a child.

“The men of Gondor need learned commanders, wise in tactics and the histories of war, Dusan,” Boromir reproved mildly. “And as for Faramir’s sword arm, I’ll vouch he’ll be more than worthy of his duty to the White City when he comes into his growth. Now if you are done with your jibes, we’ll see you in the commons. Later. We have work to do.”

Dusan took the hint, lent weight by the glint in Boromir’s eye, and departed without further word.

“Put up your sword, little one. That’s enough practice for today.” Boromir wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. “You did well today.”

Faramir took his brother’s lead and sheathed his sword. “Did you mean that? About my sword arm?” he asked. Boromir nodded.

“Of course. I don’t make such comments lightly, and Dusan knows that. But I meant more than your sword arm showed its mettle today, brother. You kept your temper well when you had due cause to lose it.” Boromir grinned, ruefully. “Many’s the thrashing I had when I was your size because I did not pause before speaking words of anger. I admire that in you, Faramir. Gondor will need such a wise head as yours, so take care to learn how to keep from losing it.”

“I will, with you as my teacher,” Faramir replied. Boromir ruffled his hair affectionately, but as they made to leave the training ground, they were accosted by another youth, this time in the black and silver of the City guard.

“Boromir! I’ve been searching for you all over the City,” said Beregond breathlessly. “Your father seeks your presence. There is a delegation from Rohan to which he wishes to present you.”

The elder son groaned. “Not again. These endless delegations and talks and meetings are so tiresome. Surely he doesn’t need me there to conduct the business of the City?”

His long-time friend grinned. “Unfortunately not, it seems. His very words were; ‘The lord of Rohan should meet Gondor’s future Steward, and my best hope.’” Beregond realised what he had said, and winced. “My apologies, Faramir, I did not mean…”

Faramir sighed and shrugged, both gestures filled with a resignation too old for him. “No matter, Beregond. I’m used to it. I’ll see you later, Boromir – there’s some reading I want to do.”

“Faramir…” Boromir began, but could not stop his younger brother’s departure. “’Tis unfair, Beregond, that our father should heap me with such praise at the cost of his. Faramir would be the finest Steward this city has ever seen. More than that – he would make a great King,” he remarked, watching the small figure walk off, back upright but head drooping just a little.

“Gondor has no King,” Beregond pointed out.

Boromir nodded. “And while my family lives, it needs no King. Come, let us go to my father and meet the worthy men of Rohan. Let them rest assured that their safety is in good hands.”

***

“Foolishness!” The Steward’s exclamation echoed throughout the large chamber, ringing in the high vaulted ceiling. Denethor rose from his chair before the empty throne, stalking across the stone floor to where his son stood. “Heedless boy! This foolhardy venture of yours could have resulted in your death, and where would Gondor be then?”

Boromir’s face remained stony, despite the pain of the broken arm carefully treated by the Healers and set in a sling of linen across his body. There was little point – few were able to shield their true feelings and thoughts from the far-seeing Steward – but he refused to let the pain show. “It is but a small injury, and easily tended, sir,” he grated. “And I would not have been hurt at all, but for that confounded tree root in my path.” 

“You should not have been there at all! It is not for naught that the lands of Ithilien are decreed forbidden! That land is overrun with the Enemy’s creatures, and no-one walks there for sport! Not even you, my dearly beloved son.” Denthor reached the spot where Boromir stood, laying his gnarled hands on the tall young man’s hair. “You are so very important, Boromir. You carry not only my hope, but the hope of Gondor. I cannot afford to have you throw your life away for the mere sport of a hunt.”

“Not even an oliphant, sir?” Boromir risked a small grin, and was rewarded by a returning spark of humour in those fierce dark eyes.

“Even an oliphant. There are more important tasks to set your mind to, my son. Should anything happen to you…”

“…Faramir would be more than able to take my place.” Boromir cast a glance at the tall sixteen year old standing quietly amongst the other Guards. He smiled to see the slight frame straighten as their father glanced that way, but the smile slipped as the look slid away again almost immediately.

“Perhaps.” Denethor’s hands dropped to Boromir’s shoulders, bit into them. “Perhaps. But _you_ are the important one, Boromir. So much depends on you.” The grip loosened, and the Steward’s face broke into a rare smile. “Now, come, rest, and tell me of your battle of the with the oliphaunt.”

***

“We have to pull back!” Blood and dust streaked Faramir’s face, mixing with the sweat dripping from under his helm. “Where’s Boromir?”

“He and Cirion were leading the charge, but we were separated when that… that…” Horror filled the man’s face and Faramir nodded grimly. They had been set upon unawares by a great hoard of orcs at dusk, but had been making a good account of themselves before the sudden appearance of a shadow that walked free of all others, a rider all in black, whose presence had filled both man and steed of Gondor with fear and madness. What had been a charge had become a rout, few able to withstand the terror.

“Courage, Finian. Spread word to the men – retreat back to the far side of the river.”

“But what about you, my lord…?” Love, duty and fear warred in the lines of Finian’s posture. 

“Go, Finian. Someone needs to co-ordinate the retreat, ensure the enemy don’t harry us back across the river. Once across, take the bridge down – they can’t be permitted to enter our lands.” Faramir scanned the chaos of the battlefield, searching for his brother’s familiar shape, until he caught sight of a small knot of soldiers at the city gates. He pointed at the small island of order. “I will gather such men as can face this foe and meet with Boromir’s forces, down there. We will hold them back for as long as we can.” He caught Finian’s gaze with his own, eyes clear and determined. “There is no shame in this, my friend. Go, live to fight on. Defend Minas Tirith.”

“But what of Osgiliath?”

Faramir’s face turned grim. “It is lost to us. It may be that this is the end of all things, that the Shadow is come again. But Minas Tirith will not fall. Not while we defend her.” 

With that, Faramir spurred his horse down the small hill, his will mastering the animal’s wild-eyed terror, the ringing note of the horn he wore summoning the soldiers of Gondor to battle. Those soldiers able to overcome their terror followed, cutting a swathe through their foes, orcs and Easterlings and Haradim alike. But they were still hard put to it, and it was a remnant of Osgiliath’s defending forces that regrouped at the last remaining bridge.

Boromir’s grin, fierce and somehow joyous, gleamed in the preternatural darkness.

“Ho, brother!” he called, his sword’s shine dulled by blood, shield notched at the edges. “We shall make such a stand the minstrels will sing of for generations, eh?”

“Boromir! We have to hold the bridge, at least until the men can cast it down!”

“The bridge?” Realisation dawned, and Boromir slapped his brother heartily across the back. “I told you that tactician’s mind of yours would serve our city better than any sword arm. Now, come, brother, let’s show this dread Captain the mettle of the sons of Denethor!”

Before Faramir could say anything further, Boromir charged back into the fray, his face alight with the rapture of battle and his eyes shining with a fey light.

“Gondor!” he cried, and it seemed to Faramir the word fell heavily from his brother’s lips, weighed down by the expectations of duty.

***

Corpses bobbed in the waters of Anduin. Men of Gondor, hewn down by cruel strokes, their blood mingling in the waters of the great River. Three men stood on the bank, their faces stern and silent. A fourth, wounded but still living, rested beneath a nearby tree.

“This is not the end,” said Faramir at last. “This is but a beginning. Or perhaps the beginning of such an end we have all feared and prepared against.”

Boromir didn’t answer – his eyes were locked on the semi-submerged shapes bobbing listlessly past.

“But we are ready, are we not?” asked the third man, none other than Dusan, his demeanour much changed over the years of patrolling and fighting together.

Faramir opened his mouth to reply, but Boromir’s voice cut across the smoky air like a blunt knife, slow and halting and ragged. 

“As we must be.”

The bitterness etched Boromir’s voice like acid, and Faramir winced.

“Duty, yes, but there is also hope. My dream…”

“Moonshine, brother. Has Gondor sunk so low that we must place our faith in dreams and fancies?” Boromir’s retort was flat and lifeless. He nodded at the River, bearing its cargo of dead towards the Sea. “Tell Cirion of your dream.”

“Cirion was a fine man, and I know he was your friend. He will be missed.” Faramir lay his hand on his brother’s arm. “But you must have hope. Without it, all this striving, all this duty, it is in vain. The King will come again, the Shadow will be defeated.”

Boromir made no reply, staring across the pink-tinged water at the burning city of Osgiliath. Faint cries reached their ears as the orcs tormented the wounded. His fists clenched, his jaw tightened, but then the anger drained away. With a sigh, he turned away.

“Father will be waiting for news of this defeat. Let us go – there’s nothing more to be done.”

***

Sunlight fell, pale and thin, across the cold stone floor. Faramir stood in the doorway, lips compressed as he watched his bother make his preparations.

“I should be the one to make this journey,” he said quietly, concern rather than rancour in his tone. His brother said nothing, rolling a few possessions in a blanket and stuffing it in a saddlebag. “It was my dream, my fancy. Father is furious. He needs you here – you know he looks to you to lead our people.”

Boromir shot him a dark look under lowered brows, but undeterred, Faramir pressed on. “You’re too valuable to the city to risk this journey, Boromir. I’m not – let me go to Imladris.”

The breath exploded from his lungs as his brother’s larger bulk crashed into him, callused hands gripping the front of his jerkin and his back pressed into the doorframe.

“You should not say such things - _never_ speak of yourself so in my hearing,” Boromir growled. He released his grip, allowing his brother to stand freely. “Of all people, Faramir, you have to understand why this quest must be mine.” He gestured around the room, the movement taking in the windows, through which the pennants of Minas Tirith could be seen snapping and fluttering in the breeze. “This is a warrior-city, Faramir, and a warrior knows only duty, his responsibility to those he protects. All our lives we have been instructed and lectured on this, and I _am_ a warrior. But it is _all_ I am. This hope Father places in me, it is misplaced. _You_ know there is more to us than fighting, than war and blood and death.” Boromir’s voice, always so sure, faltered. “The burden is too much for me to bear.”

“And so you leave it to me?”

“I leave it with the man best suited to it, Faramir.” Boromir hefted the saddlebag over his shoulder, adjusted the great horn hanging from his belt. “I shall return by Spring. Listen for the horn.”

“I shall,” Faramir replied, and the two men briefly embraced. Then Boromir was gone, and Faramir remained in the silent sun-filled room, alone with his thoughts.

Footsteps echoed on the stairs, and a herald entered the hallway. “My lord, your father summons you.”

Faramir nodded. “I shall be there shortly,” he told the man, who inclined his head in assent and departed. The youngest son of Denethor looked around his brother’s room, already strangely cold and empty.

“I understand, brother,” he said quietly, and then departed to answer the call of the City.


End file.
